


Cripples, Bastards, & Broken Things

by universalworst



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Cripples, Gen, House Lannister, Original Character(s), bastards, broken things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 06:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalworst/pseuds/universalworst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyrion Lannister is ten years old when he receives the greatest gift of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cripples

It was the most stupendous thing he'd ever seen.  
  
Tyrion stood in the courtyard with Father as their guest—an old war hero, Father had said—rode towards them. Tywin strode ahead to greet the knight and his party as they arrived, offering the rider a solemn nod.  
  
"Ser Larrance."  
  
The knight roared in laughter, though Tyrion wasn't sure what the joke was. "Tywin Lannister! It's been too long, my friend! Brock, bring me my chair!"  
  
As a servant began to unbuckle the straps that held the paraplegic knight to his saddle, a large man unloaded a chair fixed with small wheels and two strange bars on each side—loose and pliable, but fixed to the arms, like oars on a rowboat. As he set it down beside the horse, Ser Larrance set a hand on his shoulder. Tyrion could only stare in awe as the big man lifted the legless knight from his mount and set him down in the chair. Still grinning, Larrance gripped the "oars" and used them to wheel himself towards Tywin. "You haven't aged a day, Lannister."  
  
"On the contrary," Tywin replied dryly, "I've aged several years. Come. The servants will see to your things."  
  
Tywin turned to walk back to the castle, but Ser Larrance's eyes turned to Tyrion. A boy of ten and immeasurably shy in the presence of strangers, he felt his cheeks flush under the man's gaze.  
  
"Are you going to introduce your son, Lord Tywin?" the knight japed, cracking a snaggle-toothed grin at the young dwarf.  
  
Tyrion could almost feel Father tense at their guest's use of the word " _son_ ". Tywin turned and stared coldly at the boy as he spoke. "Tyrion is old enough to introduce himself. It seems he chose against doing so." Turning back to the keep, he changed the subject. "I've arranged a room to be made for you on the ground floor."  
  
Ser Larrance's smile faded for a moment, his eyes still locked on Tyrion, before gripping the "oars" on his chair and using them to push himself forward after his host. Tyrion could tell from the set of Father's back that the constant clinking of the chains holding the poles to the chair irritated him a great deal, and he was even further impressed. It took a very brave man to continue doing something when it was evident it irritated Tywin Lannister.

* * *

"What a melancholy little boy."  
  
Tyrion knew the knight had been approaching him. The chains and the sound of the "oars" scraping over the ground had given him away. So he wasn't at all surprised as he looked up from his book towards Larrance.  
  
"I'm not melancholy," he said quietly. "I'm reading."  
  
“So you are…”  
  
Tyrion turned his attention back to the book, but Ser Larrance didn’t make any move to leave. The boy’s stomach twisted in sickly knots as he felt the man continue to stare at him, until finally he closed the book.  
  
“…May I help you, Ser Larrance?”  
  
He blushed when the knight laughed. What had he said wrong? Wasn’t that the polite thing to say?  
  
“You are your father’s son, boy,” Larrance chuckled.  
  
Tyrion’s blush grew darker. “Father wouldn’t like you saying that.”  
  
Larrance leaned forward in his seat and smirked at the child. “And why not? Do fathers not want their sons to take after them?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Tyrion responded, eyes glued to the book clutched in his hands. “Father says I’m not his.”  
  
“Does he?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And why would he say something like that?”  
  
“Because he hates me.”  
  
“Your father does not hate you, boy.”  
  
“He _does_.” Tyrion finally raised his mismatched eyes to meet the knight’s. There was no humor in them now, though Larrance still wore a ghost of a smile. “He hates me because I’m ugly, and a dwarf, and because I killed Mother. He hates me because I’ll never be a knight, or a lord, or anything, because dwarfs are useless except as mummers, and no Lannister will ever be a mummer.”  
  
Ser Larrance’s lips twitched in amusement, which irritated Tyrion. He hadn’t said anything funny. “You can read, can’t you?”  
  
“Yes.” He thought this was a pointless question, seeing that he had been reading when the knight rowed into the room in his stupid chair.  
  
“And write? Can you do arithmetic, boy?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The knight leaned forward again, resting a hand on the tabletop. “If you have a good head on your shoulders, you will not need to become the first Lannister mummer.”  
  
Tyrion considered this quietly. He was clever. The maester and his tutors had always said so. Still, he was suspicious of the stranger’s intentions, so he changed the subject. “How are you a knight if you’re crippled?”  
  
Ser Larrance guffawed. “I had both my legs when I swore my oaths,” he declared. “If I didn’t, I couldn’t have knelt in the sept!”  
  
The boy pondered over this for a moment before deciding it made sense. “How did you lose them?”  
  
“Wildlings, boy; wildlings farther south than they’ve ever gone before, so far as I know. They made it to the Westerlands. We routed them out, killed them all, but the bastards didn’t go down without a fight. They killed my horse and damn near killed me. I was lucky the fool was a bad shot, but unlucky that the arrow went through one thigh and into the other!” He laughed, as if the memory was a hilarious one. “The wounds rotted, and _WHOOOM_.” He sliced his hand through the air like a blade. “A maester took both me legs.”  
  
Ser Larrance wiggled the stubby ends that still remained, and Tyrion’s stomach churned, the image decidedly grotesque. “How do you ride without legs?”  
  
“You saw yourself, didn’t you? That saddle keeps me upright.”  
  
“But you can't kick a horse's sides if you don't have legs.”  
  
“It’s all in the reins, boy,” Ser Larrance replied with a wink. “Reins and voice commands. With the right horse, anyone can ride.”  
  
‘ _Anyone can ride…_ ’ Tyrion’s heart seemed to grow lighter, and he asked, “Who made your saddle?”  
  
“My saddler, of course. Though I worked with him on the design.” He smiled proudly. “I must give credit where it’s due, after all.”  
  
_Anyone can ride…_  
  
“Tyrion.” The boy’s excitement burst as his father’s voice echoed through the room. “You haven’t yet finished your studies.”  
  
“Sorry, Father,” he mumbled meekly, holding his book to his chest.  
  
“Don’t blame the little lordling,” Ser Larrance interjected. “I interrupted the boy.”  
  
“The ‘boy’ should know when to politely excuse himself in order to fulfill his responsibilities.” Tywin’s golden eyes flickered as they bore into his son’s. Tyrion wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the floor whenever Father looked at him that way. Instead, he pushed back his chair and hopped down to the floor, waddling a few steps from the table before nodding to Ser Larrance. “Ser Larrance,” he said quietly. His eyes darted to Tywin’s for just an instant. “…Father. Please excuse me. I have to…study…”  
  
He could feel Tywin’s eyes follow him as he walked out of the room. He could feel how his side-to-side gait disgusted his father. But for once, he didn’t care.  
  
_Anyone can ride._  
  
After he closed the door to the hall behind him, he galloped down the corridor, up the stairs, to his room. He scrambled to gather together paper and a pencil, shaking with excitement as he sat at his desk and set to work.  
  
_Anyone can ride_ , he told himself. _Anyone can ride._


	2. Bastards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion enlists the help of a saddler's bastard.

“No. Absolutely not.” Old Morris spoke in a muffled voice, holding three nails between his teeth as he methodically applied oil to a freshly tanned strip of leather.  
  
Tyrion bit his lip, looking down at the drawings he’d labored over so tediously. “Why not? I won’t be angry at you if it doesn’t work.”  
  
“It ain’t you I’m afraid of angering, little lord,” Morris said with a dry chuckle, removing a nail from his mouth to tack the strip into place. “Your father’ll have _me_ tanned into one o’ these saddles if I put you on a horse.”  
  
A loud hiss sounded from further back in the shanty. Glancing up, Tyrion spied Old Morris’s son, the aptly named “Young Morris,” cooling a newly forged horseshoe in a bucket of water. The youth, who had clearly been listening in on the conversation, quickly looked back down at his work.  
  
“Father doesn’t have to ever know,” Tyrion insisted, looking back at the old saddler. “I won’t tell him.”  
  
“And when y’ fall and crack your skull, Lord Lannister won’t suspect a thing.” Old Morris folded the leather over itself and tacked another nail into place. “I told you no. Now get. You shouldn’t be out here.”  
  
The child slowly walked out of the shanty, clutching his designs tightly in his hands. His throat was tight and his chest ached. He’d spent weeks on these plans, experimenting and reading and collecting measurements from books. He knew his current drafts would need improvements, but he doubted that was what led Old Morris to refuse. He had hardly glanced at the drawings.  
  
This was his own fault. If he had only had Old Morris look at Ser Larrance’s saddle before the old knight had left, maybe he wouldn’t be so reluctant to help. If he had only asked Ser Larrance to help him with his designs, maybe they would look better. If he had only been born normal, he wouldn’t have to bother with any of this in the first place.  
  
Disappointed and bitter, Tyrion sat down behind the stables and cried. Part of him wanted to tear up the drawings, but he couldn’t quite make himself do it.  
  
“M’lord?”  
  
Tyrion started, sniffling and wiping away his tears. As he stood up, he saw Young Morris peering around the side of the stable at him. His tanned face was sweaty and streaked with what looked like charcoal, brown eyes inquisitive. He couldn’t have been any older than Jaime. That thought set a heavy stone in the dwarf’s gut. He wished his brother were here. He would scare Old Morris into helping him. Instead, he was at the capital, a knight of the Kingsguard. Recalling this only brought tears back to the boy’s eyes, and he began crying again, first from missing his brother, then from the shame of crying in front of Young Morris.  
  
“M…M’lord, please stop,” the young man pleaded, glancing around uncomfortably before approaching the child and kneeling down to get closer to his height.  
  
“Sorry,” Tyrion whispered, wiping his puffy eyes on his sleeve. He avoided direct eye contact, nervousness sweeping over him as he felt the lad’s dark eyes staring at him.  
  
“It’s alright, m’lord,” he said quietly, reaching into a pocket and offering Tyrion a handkerchief. It was damp and stained with something brownish, and it smelled like old sweat.  
  
“…No thank you,” Tyrion declined, eyeing the cloth warily.  
  
The farrier returned it to his pocket and spoke again. “Don’t let Pa get you down. He’s only doing his job.”  
  
“His job is to make saddles.”  
  
“His job is to serve your father,” Young Morris countered. “And your father would have his head if he put you on a horse and you fell.”  
  
That hardly sounded like a reasonable punishment to Tyrion, but he knew Tywin Lannister wasn’t famous for his mercy. Still…  
  
“D’you know how to make saddles, Morris?” Tyrion asked cautiously.  
  
The youth stood up and shook his head several times. “No, m’lord. Well, yes, m’lord, but I can’t. Your lord father—”  
  
The boy took a deep breath and held out his papers. “…Would you at least look? Old Morris wouldn’t even look.”  
  
Young Morris looked down at the tiny boy and bit his lower lip. After a moment of hesitation, he wiped his hands off on his apron and took the papers. Tyrion watched him as he slowly examined each page, brow furrowed. A minute or two passed in silence. Then he looked down at the dwarf. “How’d you design this?”  
  
“I read a lot,” Tyrion answered sheepishly. “About saddles, and horseback riding. About how big horses are. And I made a horse back out of pillows and figured which ways it would be hardest to stay on.” He pantomimed leaning to one side, then the other. “Finding all the weak spots I could.”  
  
“It’s good,” Morris said after shuffling through the pages again. “Needs some adjustments to the body of the saddle itself, an’ there ain’t no need for this many straps and buckles, but…”  
  
He looked down at Tyrion again. The boy was smiling now, which took him off-guard.  
  
“We can make changes to it,” Tyrion said quietly. “Test it a hundred times, or a thousand.”  
  
“M’lord…”  
  
“I want to ride. Please, Morris.”  
  
The young man swallowed, then folded up the papers and tucked them in his pocket—the same pocket that contained his handkerchief, Tyrion realized in dismay. “Meet me in the shanty at noon tomorrow. And don’t tell your father.”

* * *

Tyrion watched, mesmerized, as Young Morris plied the leather of the seat into a sort of shallow U shape. The odd pair sat together on the shanty porch, Morris grunting and sweating as he shaped the still-warm hide, and Tyrion sitting and swinging his legs over the edge of his chair. His drawings sat on a stool near Morris, held in place by a stone. The youth had made a few alterations to the design, in thick, ugly pencil strokes. Tyrion wished he could have made the changes more carefully, but he wasn’t in any position to complain. Instead, he broke the silence with a question.  
  
“How did you know your father would be in the village?”  
  
“Nnnh.” Morris grunted, then looked over at his little client. “Pa always sees his mistress Friday afternoons.”  
  
“Why doesn’t she ever visit here?”  
  
“Because.” Morris stuck a tack between his teeth just like his father had the day before. “She’s a whore.”  
  
“Oh,” Tyrion replied uncomfortably. “…Why doesn’t he pick a proper mistress? He could marry her and she could live here.”  
  
“Because Pa likes whores,” Morris snapped, aggressively hammering the tack into place over the wooden mold below. “He’s always liked whores. My mother was a whore. But apparently rearing a bastard didn’t do nothing to teach him right.”  
  
Tyrion fell silent, as did Morris. The child picked up his book, and the farrier worked away at the saddle, and the afternoon passed them by.

* * *

“I hear you’ve taken to socializing with the saddler’s bastard,” Tywin said distastefully at dinner that night, sawing at his pork with his knife.  
  
Tyrion felt his stomach tie in knots. How had Father learned about the saddle? Had Old Morris spoken to him about his request? Swallowing the phlegm in his throat, the dwarf responded solemnly. “Yes, Father.”  
  
“I don’t want you talking to the boy again.” Father’s eyes flickered over to him. “It’s improper.”  
  
Tyrion was confused. Was this…not about the saddle? He knew better than to question his father, but he had to ask, “Why?”  
  
“Because.” Tywin dabbed his thin lips with a napkin. “A Lannister does not socialize with those below him.”  
  
Annoyed, Tyrion mumbled a retort. “The way you talk about Lannisters, we shouldn’t be allowed to talk to anyone but ourselves.” He regretted speaking even as the words left his mouth.  
  
“Bastards,” Tywin said quietly, “are as lowly as whores.” His voice, while calm, was dangerous.  
  
“Young Morris can’t help how he was born.” His words were weak, for he knew he’d already lost.  
  
“No, he cannot. That doesn’t make him any less a bastard. You will not sully our family name by speaking with him again. Is that clear?”  
  
“Yes, Father.”

* * *

They met in the back room of the shanty the next time, instead of the porch. When Tyrion told him the reason they had to hide, Morris had laughed.  
  
“Lowly as a whore,” he repeated, though he didn’t look as if he found it as funny as he acted.  
  
There was always a slight air of resentment around Young Morris, and Tyrion was beginning to understand why. He’s angry, the boy thought. Angry at Old Morris for making him a bastard, and angry at people like Father who hate him for it. More than anything, he was angry that he lived in a world that didn’t want his kind. Tyrion felt angry too, sometimes, and for some of the same reasons, so he found some solidarity with his new lowborn companion.

* * *

A fortnight passed before Morris strapped the finished product to the wooden saddle stand, folding his arms proudly as he admired his work.   
  
Tyrion could have kissed him. “It’s perfect!” he cried, and the farrier’s ruddy cheeks flushed with pride.  
  
“We’ve still gotta test it out,” he said, and before Tyrion could react, the young man lifted him up off the ground and set him down in the saddle. The scent of new leather was strong, almost potent, and it would have been dizzying had Tyrion not grown accustomed to it over time.  
  
The boy could only grin as Morris fastened the straps around his legs. Once he was all buckled in, the young man took a few steps back and looked him up and down. “Move around some,” he instructed, tilting his head to the side. Tyrion obliged, bouncing up and down—he had to have some mobility, Morris explained—rocking forward and back, and side to side.  
  
“Don’t tilt too far, or you’ll fall,” he warned.  
  
“I can still fall?”  
  
“You have to be able to fall. Sometimes falling is safer than hanging on.”  
  
The boy feels as if he might cry again. This was the greatest gift he’d ever been given. “Thank you,” he squeaked as Morris returned to unstrap him and help him down.  
  
“Don’t go bawling again,” he scoffed. “It’s just a saddle. The hard part’ll be using it. The better part of riding is in the legs, and yours don’t reach half far enough, even for a pony.”  
  
“That won’t matter.” Tyrion reached up with a stubby arm and patted the saddle stand as if it was alive. “With the right horse, anyone can ride.”


	3. Broken Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift is given, a gift is taken, and a gift is passed on.

Finding a suitable horse was harder than Tyrion had expected. He spent hours inspecting the Lannister stock with Young Morris, but to no avail. Each horse they considered was too anxious, too set in its training to reteach, or otherwise spoken for.  
  
The farrier sighed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just ride a pony? You’d be plenty tall on a pony.”  
  
“I want to ride a horse.” He knew he was being stubborn, and he knew Young Morris was growing irritated, but he couldn’t ride a pony. Little girls rode ponies. Lords rode horses. Turning to the paddock, Tyrion leaned against the fence, watching the horses inside graze. Then he glimpsed one of the stable boys leading in a horse he hadn’t seen yet.  
  
It was love at first sight—from the boy’s end, at least. He climbed up onto the fence and watched her slow, rocking gait as she wandered forward to graze with her kin.  
  
Morris must have seen the look on his face, because he quickly shook his head. “Oh no, boy. She’s lame.”  
  
Tyrion took offense at this. “No she’s not,” he insisted, staring out at her. “What’s lame?”  
  
“It means she has a bad walk.”  
  
“Can she get better?”  
  
Morris let out a loud sigh before whistling to the stable boy. “Hal! Over here!”  
  
The teenage boy looked up from where he’d begun stacking hay and jogged over to the two. “Morris. Lord Tyrion.”  
  
“I’m not a lord.”  
  
“Shush, boy,” Morris scolded. “That chestnut over there…” He pointed to the mare with the awry gait. “What’s wrong with her?”  
  
Hal shrugged. “Dunno exactly. Some horses just turn out like that. We call ‘em wobblers. Some say they ain’t all right in the head.”  
  
“I want her,” Tyrion declared.  
  
“No you don’t, m’lord,” Hal cautioned. “She’s been wobblin’ since the day she was born, and she’ll wobble ‘til she dies. She’s a broken thing, m’lord. Ain’t no good for a riding horse.”  
  
“So she hasn’t been trained for riding yet?” Tyrion’s eyes lit up, and Morris put a hand to his forehead.

* * *

As it so happened, Wobbler, as Tyrion took to calling her, while not well-suited for the serious rider, was a blessing in disguise for a nervous child who had never been on a horse. She was quiet and good-natured, and ate oats from Tyrion’s hand, her big fuzzy lips tickling his skin. She let Hal strap the saddle onto her back with minimal complaint, and her side-to-side walk reminded Tyrion of his own funny gait. Maybe he was a wobbler too.  
  
He wasn’t allowed to mount the mare on the first day, or the second or even the third. “Breaking a horse to be ridden isn’t easy, little lord,” Morris told him solemnly. “Not even the sweetest of them.”  
  
Much of those days Tyrion spent watching his mare graze or stroking her flank—what he could reach of it, at least—while Morris and the stable boys were at work. Once, he sneaked into her stall with her and sat in the corner, reading, until Morris burst into the stall and scolded him so sternly he nearly cried.  
  
After that, Wobbler was kept tied to the paddock by her lead when she wasn’t grazing, so that the little Lannister could sit nearby and stroke her. She was such a gentle thing, he thought as she lowered her head to his height, her soft brown eyes staring into his. Tyrion smiled. Wobbler would never stare at him strangely because of his stumpy arms and legs, or his ugly face, or his mismatched eyes. She looked at him through the innocent eyes of an animal, eyes that didn’t scare him or force him to look away in shame.  
  
“Someone’s in love,” Morris teased as he strode up to the two, carrying the saddle under one arm and holding a bridle in his opposite hand. “If you were older I’d make some sort of jape about you ‘mounting’ her.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothin’.” Young Morris started saddling her up. “Today, boy, is the day you ride.”  
  
It was different, being strapped onto an actual horse’s back instead of the wooden saddle stand. It was much higher up, for one thing, and when Wobbler shifted her weight, Tyrion’s eyes widened.  
  
Morris just laughed. “You aren’t going to fall that easy.” After offering the boy the reins, he took the lead and began to walk the horse forward. Her stiff, side-to-side gait was frightening at first, and Tyrion recalled what Morris had told him about how he could fall from the saddle even with the safety straps. Morris looked up at the white knuckled boy. “Keep your center of balance,” he said. “When she tips you one way, you lean the opposite, just a bit.” Tyrion nodded mutely and did as the boy instructed. Soon enough, the wobbling didn’t frighten him anymore.  
  
“I want to ride on my own,” he told Morris. “Take off the lead.”  
  
Morris raised an eyebrow. “You know how?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Use little movements, light as you can to get a reaction. Pull back gently to halt. Whatever you do, don’t use the reins for balance.”  
  
“I said I know how.”  
  
“Alright then.” Morris shrugged and, after a moment of hesitation, took off the lead.  
  
And Tyrion was riding. It was a slow, ambling walk, he knew, but he was riding. After the initial burst of nervousness, he began to look around and take in the scenery. He looked down to see things as he rode, and the leaves of a tree brushed the top of his head as they walked beneath it.  
  
“I’m tall!” he declared.  
  
“So you are!” Morris replied, walking alongside them.  
  
The boy grinned as they roamed the yard, the meadow, all around the paddock. His confidence grew, and as it did, so did his bravado. Snapping the reins and clicking his tongue, he urged Wobbler to speed up.  
  
“Hey, wait a minute,” Morris protested, but it was too late. Wobbler trotted off, Tyrion with her. It was terrifying at first. This gait had an added dimension, and the dwarf bounced up and down in the saddle. Just as he feared he might be sick, Wobbler broke into a canter.  
  
For a split second, Tyrion thought he was about to die. The bouncing stopped, and he was flying. It took a moment for him to realize he was still on the mare’s back. He was flying, on the mare’s back. Flying. His face split into a grin, and for a few short seconds, he was truly on top of the world.  
  
Then he saw his father.  
  
His grin vanished and he pulled on the reins, bringing Wobbler to an unsteady halt as Morris came running up behind them, out of breath.  
  
“Don’t do that again!” the farrier shouted.  
  
“He won’t.”  
  
Morris stood up straight, just now noticing Tywin Lannister. “M’lord, I… I…”  
  
“Remove Tyrion from the horse.”  
  
Tyrion looked down, but he could feel his father’s eyes cutting into him, and his heart sank.

* * *

The next morning, the boy sneaked from his room. Checking for his father before turning every corner, he cautiously made his way outside before running to the stables, down the rows of stalls, until he reached Wobbler’s. Reaching up, he grasped the latch in his chubby hand and pulled it loose, slowly opening the stall door.  
  
Empty.  
  
Tyrion felt an unusual tension in his chest as he closed the stall door. As he turned around, he caught sight of one of the stable boys darting away, out into the yard. Tyrion ran after him.  
  
“Hal!” he shouted after the figure.  
  
The stable boy stopped upon hearing his name. Cheeks flushed, he turned around, refusing to look up from his boots. “…M’lord,” he said quietly.  
  
“Where’s Wobbler?”  
  
Hal didn’t reply.  
  
Fear and bile rising in his throat, he asked again. “Hal, where is she?”  
  
“Dead, m’lord,” Hal said in a hoarse whisper.  
  
The words struck Tyrion like a blow to the gut. Wobbler… That sweet, awkward-gaited chestnut… His horse… She was his horse. The boy struggled to speak. “…Why?”  
  
“Lord Lannister ordered it, m’lord. Since she was unsteady. It was a mercy, m’lord.”  
  
“Where’s my saddle?”  
  
“I…don’t know, m’lord…”  
  
Tyrion didn’t speak again. He nodded slowly and walked away from the nervous boy. He heard Hal scampering away, back to the stables. Tyrion didn’t mind. He didn’t care. His feet felt like lead as he trudged towards the saddlery. He stepped up onto the porch, legs weak, and opened the door slowly.  
  
Empty again.  
  
He clutched the door handle for balance, certain he would faint if he didn’t. “Morris?” he called out. There was no answer. Tears filled his eyes and he screamed into the empty shack. “MORRIS!” He knew there wouldn’t be a response.  
  
His legs felt lighter now, heart pounding in his chest and in his ears, as he ran from the shanty to the castle, down a corridor, around a corner, down another hall, and to a large wooden door which he swung open with all his strength.  
  
This time, it wasn’t empty.  
  
“What did you do to him?” he asked breathlessly.  
  
Tywin looked annoyed as his eyes rose from his work. “To whom?”  
  
“Young Morris.”  
  
Disinterest clouding his expression, Father’s eyes lowered back down to his desk. “I did nothing.”  
  
“Then where is he?” Tyrion felt a lump forming in his throat.  
  
“He went north,” Tywin drawled, dipping his quill in ink, “to the Wall. He will be taking the black.”  
  
Taking the black. His friend. His only friend. Sent to the Wall. Taking the black. His friend. Old Morris’s only son. All because Tyrion insisted he make him a stupid saddle that he can’t use anymore, or even find.  
  
“If you’re finished, you may be excused,” Father said, glancing down at Tyrion for just a moment. The boy felt the hate in his father’s stare, and this time, he stared right back. _I hate you_ , he thought. _I hate you._

* * *

It was another few days before Tyrion was brave enough to go back to the saddlery. Old Morris sat on the porch slumped in a chair, snoring softly. He didn’t wake up when the boy cautiously opened the door and stepped inside.  
  
Young Morris’s smithy tools were all where he had left them, and his apron hung from a hook on the wall. Tyrion reached into the apron pocket, wondering if his drawings might still be inside. They weren’t, but Young Morris’s handkerchief was. Tyrion left it where it was and opened the door to the little room in the back.  
  
The saddle stand sat bare. The child walked towards the stand, then stopped dead in his tracks, unable to hold back a small gasp. There, in the corner, inconspicuous as can be, sat his saddle. How Young Morris had found a way to sneak it out of Tywin’s clutches, he’d never know. For now, Tyrion was content to sit on the floor beside the saddle and cry. He cried for Wobbler, for both the Morrises, even for Ser Larrance’s legs. He cried until his chest and throat ached.  
  
Then, he stopped.  
  
Tyrion stood up and dried his eyes. He lifted the saddle up off the floor and walked from the room, then out the door. It was a heavy thing for such a small child to carry across the yard, into the castle and up to his room, but he did. He set the saddle down in the corner of the room and willed himself to remember Ser Larrance, Young Morris, and Wobbler. This was their gift to him; a gift from a cripple, a bastard, and a broken thing.  
  
Someday, in the future, he will meet a little boy with broken legs who wishes he could ride. When that day comes, he will pass the gift on to him.  
  
A Lannister always pays his debts.


End file.
